


Sparks

by anait, imogen (team_fen)



Category: Karin Lowachee - Warchild series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anait/pseuds/anait, https://archiveofourown.org/users/team_fen/pseuds/imogen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Ryan Azarcon's kidnapping and near death on Austro station, his bodyguard, Marine Corporal Timothy Sidney, struggles with a painful secret.  Until Corporal Erret Dorr decides to stage an intervention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frostfire-17](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frostfire-17).



> Many thanks go to Sally for her stellar advice. This story would have been much worse without it.

I'm dreaming, aware and wholly immersed.  It's not a good dream.

I'm fighting in a war-torn city in my Corps-issue armour and carrying my plasma rifle.  I'm not supposed to leave my Company, but someone's in danger.  I have to protect them.  The tug-of-war between duty and the awful sense of doom in my chest is so sharp it hurts.  I head out, ignoring the shouts and barked orders from the Marines behind me.  I have to hurry before it's too late.

I run through the streets, over rubble and around bodies.  The sound of laser pulses, flashing in bright red streamers overhead, is constant, and so is my desperation.  I catch a glimpse of a blue shirt in an alley; the back of a brown-haired head disappearing through a doorway.

I search and search for what feels like an eternity, always just a few moments too late to catch up.  I wake up sweating, my heart trying to pound its way through my chest, to the feel of silky hair brushing against my cheek and the sweet, dusky smell of roses.

Song.

My subconscious isn’t subtle.

I call up the lights to sixty percent.  This isn't Earth.  I'm in my bunk on _Macedon, _and we're light years away:  well past the Dragons and crossing into the Demilitarized Zone.  The DMZ:  home to pirates, aliens and their human sympathizers, and now us, an EarthHub deep space military carrier gone rogue.

The terror of the dream fades and the profound sadness sets back in, gray and heavy, a weight in my chest.

Giving in to grief won’t help anyone.  I need to check on Ryan.

Ryan's alive.  He's going to be okay.

Get moving, Sid.

I pull on a uniform and head through jetdeck.  It's the middle of the night, the ship's blueshift, and the corridor is empty.  The ship drives hum steadily beneath my boots.  I take the lev down to medbay, to the private room where Ryan's recuperating.

Ryan's asleep and Captain Azarcon is there, sitting by the bed.  His dark head is bent as he types into his comp.  The captain looks up.  He seems tired, but his dark eyes bore into mine, unreadable.

"How is he, Sir?"  I prefer to be very, very polite with him, events permitting.

I spent a good part of yesterday with Ryan, before Doc kicked me out, saying things about concussions and rest.  Not even Doc would dare tell Azarcon what to do on his own ship, especially not about his own son.  Shrinks would have a field day with Azarcon and his God complex.

"He's been asleep for most of blueshift.  Mercurio says that he'll be ready to get back on his feet in another day or two."

I don't ask about Ryan's eyes.  The skin around them is purplish, bruised.  It's anybody's guess whether or not his sight will fully return.  We can hope.

Ryan is sleeping peacefully.  He looks younger than nineteen without his habitual smart remarks and the blue-eyed stare that he uses to bring people up short, an unforgiving wall they bang into.  I prefer him him when he's full of attitude and provoking conflict with a ruthless disregard for other people’s self-esteem.  He’s pretty entertaining when he isn’t driving me into early retirement.

I'd stay with him, but I'm intruding.  Azarcon and I have too many things uneasily shared and undiscussed between us for the silence to be comfortable.  And that’s putting it mildly.

"I'll come back later, Sir."

"Sidney."

The captain's polite dismissal.

There's still hours until the ship's goldshift.  I can't sleep.  It’s been elusive lately.

I take the lev back to jetdeck, to one of the small gyms, and run the track until my thighs and lungs burn.  I'm dripping with sweat and my head finally feels clearer, less bleary, the endorphins doing their dance in my blood.  I don’t have much hope that the tiredness of my muscles will help me sleep.  My nerves are already pushing the high of the workout towards wired jumpiness.  The last traces of concussion have worn off, my only injury from the kidnapping.

I hit the empty showers quickly and pull on a clean uniform.  It's too early to report to command deck but I can go over some of the intel from the kidnapping on the comp in my quarters.  Information is still coming in, from _Macedon's_ contacts on Austro Station and on Earth, from the pirate in _Macedon's_ brig.  Rage threatens every time I think about the pirate who nearly killed Ryan.  Much as I would like to kill him, his information has been useful so far.  The attempt on Ryan's life goes far beyond the actions of any one person.

And I try to set an example for Ryan.

No wonder half the galaxy is trying to kill him.

A black uniform walking jetdeck.  A jet with a blond ponytail.  Corporal Dorr.

Dorr's arguably the craziest of the jets on _Macedon_, who have the reputation for being the craziest in the Soljet Corps. He’s normally a pretty funny guy, unless you're a pirate, or a strit, or stupid enough to cross him.  But I don't want company.  I want to work.  Dorr being Dorr, he wanders right into my path, forcing me to stop.

"Corporal Sidney.  Up an' around at this hour."  Speculative gray-green eyes wander up and down, ending on my face.  "You look like shit, mano."

"Dorr."  If I encourage him this may end badly, so I don’t.

"Why ain't you in q, catchin' some z's?  We all know how Maureens need their beauty sleep."  He smirks.

"I'm headed there now."  It’s unlikely that Dorr is going to leave well enough alone, but I can hope.

"Yah, I see that."  He stares at my wet hair and clean uniform.  "Sleepin' much these days, Timothy?"

"Like a jet on duty."

Dorr barks a laugh.  "Funny!  Pretty _an'_ a sense of humour.  There gotta be some reason we keepin' you around."

"Follow me," he says.  An order.  He turns around, starts walking.

"Where?"

"My q."  Dorr looks back at me.  "You look like you need a drink, mano."

"I'm not interested.”  No thanks.

"I insist," says Dorr.  He smiles, bland good humour laced with a threat.

Dorr doesn't outrank me.  The Corporal trying to order me around could be amusing under other circumstances.  The threat isn't idle though.  He expects to get his way.  I've seen him intimidate the other jets enough to know how this goes down.  It usually ends in trips to medbay and gossip for the mess.  Jets make their own fun.

Do I want the trouble?  The files are waiting on my comp, an ever-expanding puzzle with ugly pieces.

It's better to humour Dorr for a few minutes.  I've spent a lot of time and gotten a lot of bruises developing a decent relationship with the jets.  Jets are almost as warm and fuzzy as Marines.

"One drink," I say evenly.

Dorr flashes me a grin.  "A real date with Corporal Siddy," he mocks.  "I'm all a-flutter."

I’ve been on the _Macedon_ for only a few months and this is already an old dance.

"Never going to happen, Dorr."

Looking mock-pained, Dorr leads the way to his hatch.  I step in first and call up the lights.  It's standard jet quarters, identical to mine:  six beds stacked in bunks of three, fastened to the wall.  Only the two bottom bunks are made up.  The room is minute.  Neat, except for photos scattered all over the walls:  other jets in uniform or battle dress, station vistas.

Dorr closes the hatch, sees my glance at the empty bunk.

"Madi's bunkin' with his pilot friend.  We got the place to ourselves."  He shoots me a look, waiting to see if I'll take his bait.  I meet it with a blank Marine face.  _No comprehension here._  Dorr's eyes flicker with amusement.

I sit on Madi's bunk, exhaustion and worry keeping me numb while Dorr roots in his possessions, barely a foot away.  He comes up with a long-necked bottle and two stubby glasses.  The liquid goes in clear with maybe a faint greenish tinge.  A strong scent comes off it, something herbal.

"Drink up."  Dorr hands me a glass.

"What are we drinking to?"  I'm a Texan and a Marine.  Drinking is serious business.

Dorr takes a seat across from me on his bunk and raises his glass, suddenly serious.  "To the continued health an' good fortune of _Mac_ an' everyone on her.”

"I'll drink to that."  I knock it back.  The liquor goes down in a smooth burn and leaves a smoky aftertaste a little like the smell of grass.  The heat starts soothing some of the tension from my body.  Dorr drinks too.

He pours us another round and sprawls out comfortably on his bunk, king of a domain the size of Ryan’s bathroom on Austro.

"How's Baby Az?"

Dorr must know the minute-to-minute details of Ryan's recovery, just like every other crewmember on _Mac_.  The gossip mill works non-stop on a ship this size, a solitary island floating in empty, black space.  Dorr's interest seems genuine.  He's always gone out of his way to look out for Ryan.  Loyalty to the captain, or something more.

"He's doing well," I say.  "They were able to repair his chest with the bot-knitters and some of his sight's already returned.  Doc says he might get full vision back with time."  It hadn't looked good for a while, with Ryan totally blind and unconscious, rushed into surgery while I waited, helpless.  My chest clenches tight and I take a drink, force myself to relax.

"That's good," Dorr says, watching me curiously.  "Azarcons are stubborn bastards.  He'll pull through."

Sympathy from a battle-hardened jet.  How bad do I look, that Corporal Dorr is staging an intervention?

"How are the jets taking our new status?" I say.  It's a bleak time for sure, when politics are the safe topic of conversation.

"Jets don't take this 'rogue' shit real serious," says Dorr dismissively.  "EarthHub bin callin' us names for years, tryin' to leash us.  It's all just words.  In a coupla months they'll need _Mac_ to save their asses again and come sweet-talkin' and apologizin' all nice-like."

"None of the crew are worried about being shut out of stations and colonies?  Cut off from their families?  Depending on strivs and symps for supplies?"

"Lotta us 're orphans," Dorr says.  "_Mac's_ home and family.  An' we're loyal to Cap.  He always done right by us."

"Is that true for you, Dorr?"  I'm curious now.  Are there hidden depths behind the facade of insane killer that he projects?

“Call me Erret.”  Dorr smiles, all dimpled cheeks and hard eyes.  Give him a hand and he’ll take the whole arm and everything else attached.  Ryan’s the same way.  They get very proprietary of people they decide are theirs.

 

It’s much more endearing on Ryan than on Dorr.

 

“If the Marines find out I’m on first-name basis with a jet, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

 

“Marines.  Screw ‘em,” says Dorr.  A wicked look at me that lasts a beat too long.  “It’ll be our secret.”

 

“There aren’t any secrets on a deep-space carrier,” I joke.  That’s a lie.  From the way Dorr eyes me speculatively, he thinks so too.  Not good.

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

 

After a moment, Dorr relaxes and directs a nod at the photo above his pillow.  A young man and woman, a couple, both blond.  He resembles them.  He looks older than them, biologically.  In his mid-twenties maybe:  a couple of years younger than me.

 

“My blood,” he says, gesturing with his glass.  “Mister and Missus Dorr.  Strivs bombed Calypso,” --a colony in the Rim,-- “when I was a kid.  My parents worked for emergency services and died puttin’ out fires, savin’ the ones left.  I bin on _Mac_ since I was fifteen.”  It’s said in a determinedly light way.  Old history being stepped around with care.  I’m silent for a bit.

 

“I’m sorry about your family,” I eventually say.  I’m surprised and a little touched at being the recipient of his trust and confidence.  He strikes me as someone who keeps personal things close.

 

Dorr shrugs it off, uncomfortable and trying to hide it.

 

“I know all ‘bout you, mano.”

 

And he’s back to sly innuendo, just like that.

 

“Born on the biggest dirtball there is, ridin’ _horses_, servin’ with dirtsiders who couldn’t get their sad asses on a ship.  The stench still ain’t worn off.”  He smirks.

 

“Some people find it attractive.  And then there’s those who prefer breathing recycled air.”

 

I’m amused.  I doubt Dorr’s ever been on a planet.  He might like Texas, with Grandma’s ranch, my crazy cowboy cousins and my Colonel mother (Yes, _Ma’am!_).

 

“An’ now you run after Cap’s son, guardin’ his body an’ all.  Seems like full-time work.”

 

Work that I've been failing at lately.

 

Seven years of looking after Ryan, of raising a tempermental teenager; and then in the past year he nearly dies under my care, not once, but several times.  The embassy bombing in Hong Kong, the overdose in London, the sniper in the Austro club, this kidnapping.  Knowing that Azarcon and his entire carrier of jets haven’t done any better doesn’t help.  It’s been luck as much as anything that Ryan’s still alive.  That and his own stubbornness.

 

“So what’s your loyalty worth, Timothy?”  There’s a sharpness underlying Dorr’s words.

 

I’ve just been ambushed.

 

I stare Dorr straight in the eye.  “What does that mean?”

 

“Cap’s wife,” says Dorr, watching me carefully.  “Is it true that you were keepin’ her warm for Cap while he was off huntin’ strits and pirates?”

 

There’s a fierce anger in my chest that wants to be released through my fists, through his face.  My voice is hard.  “That’s enough.  Drink’s over.”  I put my glass on the floor and stand up, abrupt.

 

“Easy there, mano.”  My hand stops on the hatch.  “You don’t copy.”

 

I look at him, friendliness gone.  “I didn’t think you were the kind of person to spread malicious gossip, especially gossip involving Azarcon.”

 

“Just because it’s gossip don’t mean it ain’t true.”  Dorr’s voice is steady, not accusing.  “I keep Azarcon’s secrets; have for years.  I’m loyal to Cap an’ his family.  So don’t get your panties in a twist, Maureen, if I say that people who ‘ssociate with the Azarcons end up gettin’ trampled on.  Hazard of hangin’ with the great ones.”

 

“You’re wrong,” I say, hoarse.  I can’t have this conversation.  Not with Dorr, not with anyone.

 

“Am I?”  Dorr’s eyes are knowing, somehow kind.  “I was at the funeral.  You always cry when your bosses get killed?”

 

“She was Ryan’s mother.”  I struggle to speak.  “The bomb...”

 

“Have a seat, mano.”  Dorr is very calm.  “You don’t carry somethin’ like that around on your own.  It ain’t healthy.”

 

Erret Dorr:  crazy jet, killing machine, and apparently also _Macedon’_sresident grief counselor.  I’d laugh if I could.

 

When I don’t move, Dorr raises a brow and points to the bunk.  “Sit.”  Another order.  “I ain’t gonna spill your secrets, Timothy.  Not even to Cap.”

 

I unclench my hand from the hatch handle and stumble down onto the bunk.  I put elbows on my knees, my head in my hands, and press hard over my eyes, trying to stop the shaking.

 

Keep it together, Sid.

 

Dorr waits me out until I can look up again.  He hands me my glass, filled up.

 

“Here.  Drink up.  It’ll help.”

 

I do.  There’s no anger or betrayal coming from Erret Dorr, the most loyal of Azarcon’s jets.  Just the proprietary interest and arrogant familiarity that seems to be his version of compassion.  If he takes an interest, it’s because he’s going to kill you or he likes you.  Either way, you’ve become worthy of his notice.

 

I wonder, in the back of my mind, what I could have possibly done to deserve that.

 

The desire to confide in Dorr is strong.  I’ve had to hide my grief for Song, except from Ryan.  I can’t publicly show more than is appropriate.  It’s important to keep up appearances, to protect her reputation and Ryan’s, even after her death.

 

It used to be my way to talk problems out with others.  Things that were hard or terrible became less so when laughed about with family or friends and put into perspective.  When did I become the kind of person who kept secrets from everyone?

 

That would be when I started working for the Azarcons, of course.

 

Living on Austro with Ryan and Song, seeing them every day, everyone I knew light years away on Earth.  Ryan quickly became family to me and Song followed not soon after.  Both of them lonely, missing a father and a husband; letting me fill the hole in their lives.  I hate Azarcon for neglecting them but, if he hadn’t, they wouldn’t have needed me so badly.  They wouldn’t be mine.  I wouldn’t be theirs.  Song, beautiful and smart and strong.  Ryan, fierce and stubborn and still very vulnerable.  I miss her so much, and I pray that I can keep Ryan alive and well when the universe seems set against it.

 

My relationship with Song was secret.  No one knew but Ryan.  It was hard, but that was how it had to be.  And I loved Song:  it was worth it to be with her, even if sometimes it was very hard that it wasn’t openly.

 

Maybe talking to Dorr, who already knows, won’t be hurting Song’s reputation, or Ryan.

 

I look at Dorr and he looks back, waiting me out.  It’s my decision.

 

So I tell him.

 

I tell him about Songlian Lau.

 

**

 

Dorr’s been silent a while, thinking God knows what.

 

“Hey,” I say.

 

Dorr rouses himself from wherever he’s gone.  “That’s a hell of a story, mano.”

 

“Real vid fare,” I joke.

 

Dorr pins me with a disapproving look.  “You ain’t far off.  Fallin’ for a woman twice your age.  Did she ever ask what you wanted, Timothy?  She seemed real happy with havin’ her big shiny marriage and havin’ you too.”

 

“We talked about it sometimes,” I say.  “She didn’t want a divorce.  She had her reasons and I didn’t push her.  Maybe if things had been different...” --If she hadn’t died, if my duty hadn’t been to Ryan first, even at her expense-- “...I would have asked her to leave him for me.”

 

Maybe not.  It would have hurt Ryan.  But we hurt him anyway, with the best intentions.  Life is messy, even when you love people.  Especially when you love people.

 

Dorr makes a sound that’s not agreement and not disagreement.  “Hard to speak ill of the dead.  They ain’t here to cuss you out for callin’ them names.  It don’t seem right to me, askin’ someone who loves you to lie and hide for you.  But it ain’t natural, neither, for a woman to spend twenty years married and only spend a few days total with her man.  Cap’s a cold-blooded bastard, no question.”

 

I can’t really process any of this.  It’s too soon.  I’ve had these questions going round and round in my head for years.  There’s too many feelings, too much history.  Since Song was killed, they’ve all been swirling round and round in my head, and I’ve yet to figure out how they’ll settle with some time.

 

Mocking Dorr is easier and much more rewarding.

 

“Isn’t that the kind of talk that gets you vented?”

 

Dorr grins, predatory.  “Cold-blooded bastards make the best commanders.”  His eyes narrow, finding an unexpected weak spot and going straight for the kill.  Jet instincts.  “You worried Cap goin’ to shove you through an airlock for gettin’ overly familiar with his wife?”

 

My face must be something, because Dorr laughs, head thrown back.

 

“Don’t worry, mano,” he says, eyes glittering.  “If Cap were gonna kill you, he’d a done it already.  He knows an’ he let it slide.  He got his reasons too.”

 

I stare a bit.  “That’s... reassuring.”

 

Dorr laughs some more.

 

The bottle of liquor’s half-drunk and I feel weary but lighter.  I think I might be able to sleep.  Time to head back to my quarters.

 

“Thanks for the company, Erret,” I say.

 

“Any time,” Dorr says.  He’s not smiling but I think he’s pleased.  Something about the tilt of his head, his relaxed posture.  The lack of innuendo.

 

I stand up.  “Are you off duty next shift?”  I’ve used up most of his night.

 

“Nah.”

 

I feel guilty.  He’s stayed up through his sleepshift to listen to me talk.  “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

 

Dorr waves it off.  “Jet, here, mano.  We the elite.  Sleepin’ is for cits and other military.”

 

“Sleep deprivation,” I say.  “Suddenly jet behaviour is beginning to make sense to me.”

 

“It’ll make even more sense when I pound you in training, this goldshift.  You bin’ skippin’ out Timothy, don’t think I ain’t noticed.  Be there or regret it.”

 

I grin.  “I’ll be there.  Get some sleep.  You’ll need it.”

 

Dorr flips me off lazily and stretches out on his bunk, blond head resting on his crooked arm.

 

I quietly close the hatch behind me and go to search out my own bunk.

 

**

 

I wake in my bunk several hours into goldshift.  I’m still tired, but feel more refreshed  than I have since the kidnapping.  The nagging exhaustion and restless adrenaline that kept me on me feet, unable to rest, are gone.  I get cleaned up and head to the mess to grab a hot caff for me and a sealed coconut pudding for Ryan.  He’s already complaining about medbay food.

 

Medbay’s full of calm, purposeful bustle.  I toss my drink container in the trash receptacle near the private room at the back.  Aki rolls her eyes at me on the way to tend to one of her patients, a slate in her hand.

 

“He’s in fine form today,” she says.

 

I grin at her and gesture with the pudding.  “Sugar often placates him for a few minutes, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

 

Aki makes a face at the pudding.  Medbay officially forbids outside food, though this rule is constantly broken.  “Go on, then.  Before Mercurio sees.”  She makes a shooing gesture with her slate, her eyes warm.

 

Ryan is sitting up and wearing an expression I know very well.  He’s annoyed at the world and everyone in it for not bowing to his wishes.  It’s a beautiful thing to see.

 

“You’re awake!”  I smile at him and take care to mess up his hair thoroughly.  

 

Ryan scowls, batting at me with his hand and missing by a couple of inches.  The glare is without its usual laser-like intensity, since his eyes are slightly unfocused and watery, but it’s a decent effort.  I’m so glad to have Ryan here, attitude un-dented, I could hug him.

 

“It’s about time, Sid,” he complains, as I sit in the visitor’s chair by the bed.  “I’m so bored.  Mercurio won’t let me have my comp, or clothes, or food that doesn’t taste like medbay cleaner, and none of the pretty medics will hold my hand.”

 

“That’s because you’re wearing a dress,” I tell him, straight-faced.

 

Ryan smirks.  “Azarcons look good in anything.”

 

“I seem to remember a certain party Shiri took you to at university.  Togas aren’t for everyone,” I say helpfully.

 

“Shiri liked it,” Ryan says triumphantly.  “And at least I made an effort for the festivities.  Going as a Marine was cheating, Sid.”

 

“Duty first,” I say blandly.  “The photos that made it onto the school intranet were real keepers.”

 

Ryan glares.

 

“I can’t do much about your comp, but as for the food...”  I wave the container at Ryan.  He squints and looks frustrated.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Pudding.  Coconut.”

 

Ryan lights up as I hand it over, puts on a giant, insincere grin.  “You’re my only friend!”

 

I laugh and watch as he struggles before managing to crack the seal and unwrap the enclosed spoon.  He digs in as though he’s been deprived of sugar for weeks when, in fact, he’s had a steady stream of visitors and gifts since he woke up.

 

Ryan is holding up well, despite Song’s death, despite the kidnapping.  He’s hanging on to life with both hands and a tenacious grip, and he’s growing into a man who can be aware of other people’s needs, who can be compassionate.  Song would be so proud.  He’s come a long way from the depressed, angry kid he was only a few months ago.  We’ve talked about Song and about his future in the last few days, and I’m cautiously optimistic.  There’s a lot more he still needs to process and to deal with.  But, for now, it feels good just to be able to sit here and banter.

 

“I stopped by last night, but you were sleeping,” I say idly.  “The captain was here.”

 

“He went back to the bridge at the start of goldshift,”  Ryan says.  “I think he worked the whole time.  It’s a good thing that I have two dads, otherwise I’d be the most neglected child in space.”

 

I nearly choke.  Marines are trained to deal with extreme conditions, torture and interrogation, but they neglected to adequately prepare me for Ryan Azarcon.

 

“Tell me you didn’t use that line on the captain,” I threaten.

 

Ryan widens his big, blue, unfocused eyes in my direction.  “Just because you and Dad don’t live together doesn’t mean you don’t love each other, right?”

 

He can’t see me, but Ryan will know exactly which stare I’m wearing anyway.  “You are one sick puppy, Ryan Azarcon.”

 

Ryan’s smirk blooms evilly.  “I was raised by the best.”

 

**

 

It’s been a bad week.  A bad month.  A hard year.

 

But it’s enough right now to be here with Ryan; with Dorr and the rest of _Macedon’s_ crew, on a rogue carrier flying through the edges of human space.

 

Today is turning out to be a good day.

 

**

__

 

_No matter gay or grim_

_it’s those tiny little sparks_

_daily life that makes me_

_forget my wounded heart_

__

_\--‘Sparks’ by Royksopp (Melody A.M.)_

 


End file.
